


Journals

by SpaceTaco



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Depressing Thoughts, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Morality | Patton Sanders Angst, Morality | Patton Sanders Needs a Hug, Morality | Patton Sanders-centric, Panic Attacks, Unsympathetic Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Unsympathetic Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Unsympathetic Logic | Logan Sanders, blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26269102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceTaco/pseuds/SpaceTaco
Summary: Journals are supposed to be a coping mechanism. Something to let people exert their emotions in a safe way. Patton doesn't believe in that though. His journal served him one important role. It was a reminder of the words that hurt the most.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Journals

Journals are supposed to be a coping mechanism. Something to let people exert their emotions in a safe way. Patton doesn't believe in that though. His journal served him one important role. It was a reminder of the words that hurt the most. It was a plain, light blue book. The cover and back were made of stiff cardboard glossed in see-through plastic. The pages inside holding secrets on the tips of its blue lines and the red separator stood out boldly as it ran down the left-hand side. The open gaps that his own words filled seemed to run from one page to the next, continuously with ink bleeding past some of the pages. There were no doodles corresponding to his favorite meals or small hearts or butterflies. Those were **childish**. There were no silly puns on the sidelines. Those were **unnecessary**. There were no self-loving notes for those days that he cried alone. Those were **stupid**. But it was a good notebook that served him its purpose, safely tucked under his pillow and that was good enough for him. 

The journal reminded him of the wrongs he'd done. Each word that spilled from the others would be slapped below the other words that ran an ongoing list. Roman was written in a dramatic red fountain pen that had a thick silver cap on top of it. Roman has something like a journal...a sketchbook. He was allowed to doodle and create beautiful sketches that were really pretty-  **Shut up**...never mind.

"You wouldn't understand Patton..."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"No one cares Pat."

"Come on, give us a good idea. Just this once..?"

**"We don't need you"**

Logan was written in a simple dark blue. The regular office pen had a cap that snapped off and was placed on the bottom of it. He had a journal too but it was used to track Thomas' actions and routines which could really be better but the kiddo is trying his-  **Airhead**...

"You're too emotional and therefore we would not get along."

"Thomas needs to stop acting like a child!"

"You are not helping Morality."

"I don't like or rather care for emotional experiences Patton."

**"Stay out of our way"**

Virgil was written in light violet, edging towards a pink but Patton did always like pink more than purple. It was love and friendship and- **No one cares**. Anyway. 

It was a clicker pen, making a satisfying and dreadful click every time another note was written.

"Please Patton, give me some space..."

"He's trying his best but it's not like that's getting us anywhere..."

"I am not your kiddo so stop treating me like one!"

"How can I trust you if you trust them!"

**"You're overbearing, a hassle I never wanted to deal with"**

Every night after dinner, Patton would go into his room and scribble the new additions to another page. He added theirs in their own corresponding colors and added some of his own thoughts in a black pen. Those notes were bolder, underlined, and circled. Frantically scribbled on until the page tore and the inked nib touched the fresh pages for tomorrow. He hated it when he scribbled to fast or accidentally broke one of his pens. That meant he was giving in to his emotions and that wasn't good. Anger wasn't good. Sadness wasn't good. Happiness wasn't good. If he ever did give in though, he would set his pen down, rest his good notebook under his pillow, and breathed for a bit before returning to his fears outside his door. And he was fine with this.

* * *

One day, Patton had noticed that one of his pages were gone. He didn't remember what was written on it and he knew it wasn't the first page or the last page he'd written on. But it was a page, and all the pages were important. What if someone found out? So what? If it was any of them that found out, what would they do? **Shrug it off cause it's true.** They would shrug it off cause it's true. They wouldn't care and that was fine. 

The notes had stretched past the middle of the journal and were now at its end. It's finished...already? With blank eyes, Patton tore out the pages and flung them into the air. The half ripped or fully repaired with tape pages flew up too. Then they stuck. Floated around Patton's room without gravity acting on them at all. They floated around just like the memories did before his room became so dark. It used to be light and happy... **were you ever happy**...Light and happy. But now the walls waved in dark greys and blacks swarming around his room like a colony of ants and spiders. He hated spiders but this wasn't **so** bad. It was always moving, thinking, breathing. But that wasn't him. He was barely moving, barely thinking, barely living. 

Patton's knuckles were white as they gripped the empty carcass of the journal. He laid in his bed, the blankets melted to his skin. A smile, all too fake, stretched past his dry and cracked skin. It curled at the end, his lips bleeding a bit. His freckles twisted into the folds of his skin and his pupils dilated into small diamonds. Tears spewed past his eyes, searing down his pale cheeks. 

Still gripping the journal, Patton curled under his covers, only his head peeking out. The journal had served its purpose and he was ~~fine~~...happy with that. 

**You can rest now**

The walls clenched around him, looming closer and darker then they were before. Air was forced out of his lungs but little was let back in. The torn papers spun faster, hitting into the walls and tearing themselves apart. He hadn't heard the banging and desperate screams that came from the other side of his door. 

The journal had served its purpose and he can rest now. And he did just that. And guess what? He was fine with that too.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another angsty story for you! Thank you for reading, constructive criticism is appreciated! Have a lovely day/night!💙


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